


the better parts be crowned

by hyphyp



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Everyone Has Issues, M/M, Manfully Repressed Emotions, Morally Gray Inquisitor, Psychological Torture, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:28:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26401930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyphyp/pseuds/hyphyp
Summary: Dorian finds himself torn between his affection for Dane Trevelyan and his fear that the Inquisitor is a dangerous man on a dark path. Things come to a head in the Emprise du Lion as the Inquisition lays siege to Suledin Keep, where a demon - armed to teeth with choices - lies in wait.
Relationships: Dorian Pavus/Male Trevelyan, Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brief warning for some misogynistic language

Dorian examined the miserable cant of Blackwall’s shoulders from where he sat across the fire and wondered whether it would have been a mercy to let the man hang after all.

Blackwall had been broody and suspicious since the Inquisitor had spared him, a far cry from the reserved but affable man he’d been before. He spoke little and thought much, always with a grim set to his jaw. Late into the night he’d sit staring into the fire, keeping his lonely vigil, and as eddies of smoke twisted upward into the sky, his thoughts seemed to rise with them - dark, swirling, obscure.

“The Inquisition is more than an alliance,” Trevelyan had said that day at Skyhold, backlit by the golden glow of the evening sun. “And those of us who have gathered here have done more than take up arms - we have laid down our quarrels, our self-interests, and our pasts. We have eschewed the bloody history that has ripped the people of Thedas apart, a history which tore a hole in the very sky itself. Instead, we now forge a new path to the future, not by virtue of who we have been - mage, templar, human, elf, dwarf, or qunari - but by virtue of what we choose to do.”

He’d looked regal, standing there before his throne, only raised a few feet up but somehow still towering above the crowd. He held his staff like a scepter, his chin like a young god, and the attention of the crowd like a prophet before his worshipers. Dorian himself had been a little entranced.

“The Inquisition is a choice,” Trevelyan went on. “A choice that I have made. A choice that everyone in this room has made. And it is a choice that you, Thom Rainier, have also made. I believe it is the right one, and it is the strength of this belief that compels me now. Whatever your past name, whatever your past crimes, I cannot bring myself to condemn a man who has selflessly offered his life in service to the world’s protection. All I can do is what I’ve always done: give you a choice.”

He sank to one knee before the slumped prisoner, his gloved hand extended - his left hand. The hand that bore the mark.

“Lie down and let history decide your fate,” he said, voice loud and clear for all to hear, “or choose to stand and fight - for the future. For your redemption. For the Inquisition.”

The hall held its breath as it waited for the prisoner to move. Slowly, he raised his bowed head. From their positions behind him, no one in the crowd could see his expression, only Trevelyan’s face, bright and burning with conviction.

Blackwall reached out and took Trevelyan’s hand. The hall erupted in cheers.

And as Trevelyan pulled him to his feet, the Inquisitor’s voice rang out above the roar. In an echo of Andraste, he declared, “Let your heart be free of guilt!”

The Inquisitor was so very good at those little speeches of his. Even Varric had said so later, lips pressed into a thin, worried line.

But now, in the freezing night air of the Emprise du Lion where he sat huddled by the fire, Blackwall didn’t look like a man who had been redeemed. He looked like a convicted criminal whose execution had been postponed. He looked like a dog on a leash.

Dorian wished he didn’t understand why.

There had been no way out for Blackwall, no matter how he felt about the Inquisitor. What was he supposed to do in a room like that - decline? There would have been a riot. He would have damaged more than just himself, and that would never be an acceptable outcome for someone with as much honor and self-loathing as Blackwall. So he had tied himself to an Inquisitor he hated, for a cause he couldn’t deny and a duty he could no longer escape.

Trevelyan had never cared much for Blackwall, either. He’d seemed bored by his stern demeanor and annoyed by all his talk of noble purposes. But now, if anything, Trevelyan had become almost fond of him. He kept Blackwall close, dragging him here and there across Orlais, seeming delighted with both his obedience and his shame.

Dorian wondered again what had passed between the two men when the Inquisitor had gone alone to Val Royeaux’s prison. Neither of them had spoken about it, and Dorian hadn’t dared to ask. Not Blackwall, because a part of Dorian was terrified what kind of judgement he would find in Blackwall’s eyes. And not the Inquisitor, because Trevelyan would answer him without reservation, and Dorian wasn’t sure he actually wanted to hear the truth. It seemed likely to confirm what Dorian already knew: Dane Trevelyan was not a good man.

A log on the fire snapped and collapsed, sending a burst of sparks shooting upward. The flare shook Dorian to attention, but Blackwall remained motionless, caught in some wordless, invisible trap, his eyes distant and unseeing.

Dorian sighed and rose from his seat. He found he was suddenly exhausted with the other man’s moping. It had begun to infect his own mood. As he left the warmth of the fire circle, the cold air pressed in on him, and he shuddered uncomfortably. Then he was parting the canvas flaps of the nearby war tent and stepping into its warm embrace.

Trevelyan was alone. 

Even Cullen had retired long before, rubbing his fingers at the bags under his eyes and wearily declining Dorian’s offer for a game of chess. But Trevelyan had remained, and Dorian had noticed.

He stood before a long table covered in maps and reports, tracing one of the paths up the mountain with his finger. His face was creased in a frown of concentration. The room was lit by a brazier, but it was Trevelyan’s own ambient fire magic that warmed the air, gathered from hours of pacing and thinking in the small space.

“You really do bring me to all the most inhospitable places in the world,” Dorian complained as he entered. “This is almost worse than that dreadful bog.”

“I know what you mean,” Trevelyan said without looking up. “All this red lyrium - it’s like a constant buzz, right under the skin. An itch that can’t be scratched. And we haven’t even started the push up the mountain yet, into the thick of it.”

“While the red lyrium is certainly unpleasant,” Dorian said, “I was actually referring to the cold.”

Trevelyan did look up then, his lips twitching into the barest hint of a smile.

He was a handsome man, with a square jaw and well-defined cheekbones. A deep but faded scar ran jaggedly across his right cheek, up to his nose. Dorian had seen noses like that on marble busts in Nevarra. And he’d seen dark eyes like those on snakes preparing themselves to strike. 

“I could warm you up,” Trevelyan said, voice low.

“You’re doing a splendid job of it as we speak,” Dorian said. 

He’d quickly become adroit at sidestepping such offers.

“Oh, is that why you’re here?” Trevelyan laughed. “They warned me you were only using me, Magister Pavus.”

“Yes, well,” Dorian said airily, flicking a bit of dirt off the shoulder of his robes, “maybe next time you’ll listen to Mother Giselle’s advice.”

“I’d sooner lop my own ears off,” Trevelyan said.

“Now that would be a shame.” They were lovely ears. “Then I suppose I shall go on flagrantly abusing your misguided trust by demanding that you stop working and have something to eat. It’s late.”

“Is it?” Trevelyan asked. He shook his head and reached up to rub at his jaw. “I lost track of time. It’s the red lyrium. The buzzing.”

“Is it really that bad?”

Dorian had been feeling it, too, but it was only a mild irritant, easy to ignore. Up on the mountain it would be more intense, but for the moment it was no worse than a mosquito or one of Sera’s annoying songs, repeating over and over in the distance.

“I think it’s the anchor,” Trevelyan said. “It amplifies it somehow. Still, I’m concerned what kind of effect it’s going to have on the men if the siege drags on for too long. We have a plan for its safe removal, but clearing a path as we move up the mountain may extend the timeline and the length of our exposure by an unacceptable amount.”

“Hm,” Dorian said. 

He crossed to look down at the maps. Laid out across the top of the table were a topographical map of the region, a scout’s sketch of the quarry, and several maps of Suledin’s Keep which Dorian himself had helped the scouts cobble together from historical records. More maps were sitting in rolls or stacks to the side, but these were the ones Trevelyan currently contemplated.

“We’re still aiming for a month?” Dorian asked.

“It’ll be tight, but yes,” Trevelyan confirmed. “We aim for a month, plan for a month and a half, and prepare for two." His voice grew serious as he refocused on the maps. "Everything depends on our ability to quickly secure these three positions - ” He waved his hand over three spots circled in black on the topographical map. “ - and establish a chokehold cutting off the mine from the Keep. So long as the mine supplies the Keep with red lyrium, and the Keep supplies the mine with soldiers, a sustained siege will only be a waste of resources.”

“Like launching goats at a castle wall,” Dorian said brightly.

Trevelyan huffed a small laugh. “Yes, exactly. But if we can break their supply chain, we can take the mine. Then we can turn our attention to the Keep. If everything goes smoothly, we’ll be out of here in a month.”

“And back to Skyhold in time for supper,” Dorian said. “It all sounds very simple when you put it like that. But there’s still the red lyrium to consider, and our Chevalier’s demon.”

“Trust me, I’m aware,” Trevelyan said. “Even a month and a half feels optimistic. At what point do we give up on the fast victory and begin trying to clear out the red lyrium? We don’t know enough about its effects on people to be sure how long it’ll be safe to delay. And what can we expect from a demon-led army of monsters? Will they even feel the strain of a siege the way a normal army would? We know so little - Cullen and I have talked in circles weighing the risks. But we’ve agreed that if we haven’t taken the Keep in two months, we’ll pull out and reassess our approach. It’ll be a miserable failure if that happens. We’ll lose much, not only in time and money, but in support and morale, as well. I don’t like to think about it.”

“But think about it you must,” Dorian said somberly. “Such is the responsibility of command. However, not right now. I’ve distracted you again; you should eat.”

“You always distract me,” Trevelyan murmured, turning his head to study Dorian. “It’s unavoidable, I’m afraid.”

Dorian was suddenly aware of how close they were standing, shoulder to shoulder before the table. Their hands were resting on the maps with only inches keeping them apart, and the rising warmth in his skin had nothing to do with the temperature in the room around them.

“But you’re right,” Trevelyan said, letting out a breath. He pulled away. “I need to eat and sleep.” He rubbed at his jaw again, feeling his thickening stubble, and wrinkled his nose. “And to shave. Maker knows what you must think of me right now.”

Dorian couldn’t help his fond smile. Trevelyan at his sloppiest was still more put together than anyone else in the Inquisition, with the possible exception of Vivienne. And himself, of course.

Trevelyan ducked out of the tent and Dorian followed, mourning the loss of the warmth as it dispersed into the air around them. Some of his cheer dispersed with it when he saw Blackwall still sitting at the fire, looking up at them with a dark expression.

Dorian looked away, a tendril of shame snaking through his gut.

He followed Trevelyan down the hill toward the cluster of sleeping tents. At the edge of the circle, he paused.

“Good night, Inquisitor,” he said, turning toward his makeshift quarters. “I hope the red lyrium at the very least permits you to sleep.”

“Dorian,” Trevelyan said, drawing his attention back. “You could always come with me, you know. Your company would please me.”

And Dorian was tempted. 

But he was always tempted, and Blackwall’s gaze hung heavy in the back of his mind, like an omen. Or a reminder.

“My company pleases everyone,” he said. “Alas, I must deprive you of it on this occasion. Cassandra and I are sharing a tent, and taking the opportunity to discuss the latest installment of _A Rogue from Rivain_. The word ‘ecstasy’ is repeated no fewer than fifteen times.”

Trevelyan’s lips quirked into a wry, sad smile.

“That’s what you always say,” he said. 

He sighed, then turned toward the large tent at the back of the circle. 

“Good night, Dorian. Sleep well. Enjoy your book club.”

Dorian watched him go for a moment. Regret reached out for the tendril of shame, and the two twisted together, turning and tightening into a dark knot. He swallowed around it, then retreated to his tent.

Cassandra was sitting cross legged on her cot, eyes closed as she meditated or prayed or whatever else it was that Seekers did. Dorian sank heavily down onto his own cot and began slowly unlacing his boots.

His mind skittered here and there - from Blackwall to the red lyrium to the demon named Imshael, and then back, inevitably, to the Inquisitor, like a scab he couldn’t stop picking at, even as it began to bleed.

“I can hear you thinking from here, mage,” Cassandra said.

He glanced up to find her watching him with sharp eyes.

Well, then.

“...Your Seeker abilities,” he said. “You can use them to suppress the effects of lyrium, can’t you?”

“Yes,” Cassandra said.

“Does it work the same on red lyrium?” Dorian asked.

“The red lyrium does not affect me to the extent it does the others,” she said. “However, I have tried to use my abilities on the Red Templars in our fights, and have not been successful. I think the lyrium is too much a part of them. Or maybe red lyrium is just too different. I do not know.” She shook her head. “Why do you ask?”

Dorian chewed on the inside of his cheek, debating with himself.

“It’s the Inquisitor,” he said after a moment. “The red lyrium is affecting him more than he’s let on. I was hoping you might be able to do something for him. I’m...worried.”

“Worried,” Cassandra repeated.

“For his health,” Dorian hastened to add. “I don’t believe his judgement has suffered.”

Cassandra breathed out through her nose and uncrossed her legs.

“No, he wouldn’t risk the expedition if the red lyrium posed so great a threat,” she said, shaking her head.

Dorian could never be entirely certain whether she liked Trevelyan as a person, but it had always been plain that she respected him. Even when she disapproved of his actions - the alliance with the mages and the recruitment of the Grey Wardens came to mind - her admiration for his competence as a leader and a warrior was obvious. She and the Iron Bull were probably the only two people who followed Trevelyan without fear. Sometimes Dorian envied them that luxury.

“On the other hand, he would consider his own health to be an acceptable sacrifice,” Cassandra said. “I will see what I can do, although I cannot promise results.”

“No, of course not,” Dorian said. “But thank you, anyway.”

“Does he…” Cassandra began. She stopped, and then started again. “Does he confide in you much?”

Dorian considered her.

“Yes,” he finally admitted. Then, more quietly, “Sometimes I wish he wouldn’t.”

He waved a hand dismissively at her responding frown. 

Cassandra wouldn’t understand what it was like, to be the only one Trevelyan ever spoke to candidly, to be the only one who - Well, it was a burden, but one he couldn’t make his mind up to shrug off. There was no point in whining about it.

“Never mind,” he said. “But he’s concerned about the siege. Even more so than Adamant.”

“At Adamant, we knew who our enemy was and what they had planned,” Cassandra said. “The risk was high, but we knew what we had to do and we did it. In some ways, it was easier. There is too much guess work at play here.”

Dorian nodded slowly.

“Well, Maker willing, tomorrow will clear things up,” Dorian said. “And if not, at least there will be fewer of Corypheus’s minions standing between us and him.”

Cassandra made a grunting sound of agreement.

The first assault began in the morning. Dorian had never had cause to consider the minutiae of a military campaign before his arrival in the south. Neither, for that matter, had Trevelyan, although he'd taken to it like a fish to water. But in his short time as part of an army (and really, he preferred not to think of himself that way, it was so extraordinarily dreary and mundane), Dorian had discovered how vital the success of a first engagement could be to a company's morale.

Not that there was too much concern. The first push would be relatively easy, out of Sahrnia and up into the hills. Dorian was looking forward to it. As much as he enjoyed his research, he was eager to be out in the field again, striking tangible blows against the enemy. And when he and Trevelyan fought side by side, it was like nothing else. They were magnificent together - Dorian with his necromancy, and Trevelyan with his fire.

Dorian had never met a mage with such fine control of fire magic. In the Imperium, such forms of magic were looked down upon, to a certain extent. Elemental magic was foundational, rudimentary, the kind of thing a talented mage quickly set aside in order to pursue more complex magic. But Trevelyan had been trained in a southern circle, a place where more esoteric areas of study were carefully monitored or even outright forbidden. That he had chosen instead to refine his fire magic to near perfection, to explore its potential as deeply as he could without the hovering eye of the Chantry, was perhaps not surprising.

A small thrill ran through Dorian as he remembered their battle at the Winter Palace with the Grand Duchess Florianne. Dorian had been so angry at Trevelyan that night, and even angrier with himself. But then, in the gardens, the flames had burned so hot and bright that it was as though the Inquisitor had drawn down the very power of the sun. The night turned as if to day, the crackle of flames roared like the screaming of dragons, and all of it danced under the careful direction of Trevelyan’s fingers, bound inexorably to his will.

“It’s over,” he’d said, standing above the singed and sweating form of Florianne. “Submit.”

It was the same command he gave, without speaking, to the world, and Dorian’s heart had both soared and sank, settling instead for painful spasms of desire mixed with fear. 

Trevelyan had been _glorious_.

Fasta vass.

Dorian swiped a hand over his face and tried to shake the feeling away. He was anticipating the next day’s battle too eagerly, like some kind of heartsick maiden.

At least while they were fighting, things made sense. It was simple. There was only power, and the promise of victory, and nothing yet of consequences.

Dorian rolled over on his cot and watched Cassandra as she eased herself beneath her blanket. She only slept with one thick woolen cover, accustomed, no doubt, to saintly suffering. She tended to reflexively sneer whenever she looked at Dorian, huddled under as many layers as he could weedle out of the quartermaster and still shivering from the chill.

“By the way, Seeker,” Dorian said lightly. “I’ve been meaning to ask: What did you think of our dashing thief’s latest adventure on the exotic shores of the Rialto Bay?”

Cassandra flushed bright red at the reminder of their shared tastes in literature.

“It was...excessive.”

“Of course it was excessive,” Dorian said. “But more importantly - did you like it?”

“Yes,” Cassandra said, looking away. “The gesture with the handkerchief and the diamonds was very romantic.”

“It was, wasn’t it?” Dorian said. “Although perhaps a tad unrealistic.”

“Why do you say that?” Cassandra asked. “A fortune to save his lady’s reputation…. You don’t think a man would gladly pay any price to help the one he loves?”

“If the one he loves is anything like you, Seeker, I’m sure he would,” Dorian said.

“Be quiet, mage,” Cassandra said, the bite of her tone doing nothing to hide her small, pleased smile.

“I’m sure Varric - who is, of course, our resident expert in such matters - wouldn’t hesitate to agree,” Dorian teased. “We can ask him for his input when we return to Skyhold.”

“Dorian, I will hit you.”

She would, so Dorian hummed, said nothing more, and settled himself in to sleep.

x

Dorian woke at dawn and ate his flavorless breakfast of camp rations as quickly as he could, not eager to linger in the cold. He shaved, washed his face with a bowl of magically heated water, and longed for his tub back at Skyhold. Things were in dire straits when that decrepit old ruin started sounding like luxury.

When he was finished, he headed to the war tent, where Trevelyan and the other members of the Inner Circle had already begun to convene. He exchanged nods with Scout Harding and Cullen as he entered, shared a conspiratorial wink with the Iron Bull, and took his place beside Cassandra at the table. She sniffed as he approached, no doubt smelling his aftershave, and rolled her eyes expressively.

Blackwall and Solas joined them not long after, their temperaments like night and day. How Solas managed to look so serene all the time escaped Dorian, especially since he’d once again forsaken proper footwear. Clearly Solas had uncovered some ancient elven secret for preventing frostbite. If Dorian asked, he was sure to vaguely demure and cite only ‘his travels in the Fade.’

“Right, we’re all here, so there’s no point in delaying,” Trevelyan said. “I hope you’re all well rested. Our first offensive begins in an hour, pushing up to take the camp at the mountain’s base. It’s only a forward guard and shouldn’t be difficult to secure, but I don’t want anyone making careless mistakes or overexerting themselves unnecessarily. No flashy maneuvers. We do this cleanly and keep ourselves fresh.”

“He means you, ‘Vint,” the Iron Bull said with a grin.

“Why, I never,” Dorian said, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense.

“We save the firepower for the second push,” Trevelyan continued. “That means you, Dorian.”

Dorian huffed noisily as Solas and Cullen chuckled. There had been a time when Blackwall would have joined in, but the man was silent now, eyes trained on the maps laid out before them.

“Once we’ve taken the base camp, that’s when things get difficult,” Trevelyan said. “The path up the mountain to the second camp is too narrow for troop movements. We’ll need to strike hard with a small team as quickly as possible, before the enemy has time to recover from the initial assault and muster reinforcements. That team consists of the six of us. We move from the base camp as soon as we’ve caught our breath. Blackwall, Cassandra, and the Iron Bull take point and Dorian and I will follow. Solas, you’re the backline. Once we clear the passage, camp two presents a new set of problems.”

He pulled a sketched scout’s map onto the top of the pile. It depicted an ‘O’ shaped path that looped around a large hill marked with the bright red ink that designated red lyrium deposits.

“The branching layout could leave us open to a flank attack if we’re not careful,” Trevelyan said. “We need to pincer them before they get a chance to pincer us. There’s a small contingent of guards here - ” He pointed to the spot on the map just before the fork. “ - that we’ll need to take out quickly. As we do that, a team of Scout Harding’s archers will take the high ground here - ” He ran his finger along a ridge on the right. “ - and provide cover fire for our push. Cassandra, Blackwall, and Solas will go left. You’ll have less cover from the archers, so move with caution. Keep your shields up, and your barriers fresh. The Iron Bull, Dorian, and I will go right, drawing as much attention as possible. We’re going to be loud, hot, and impossible to ignore.”

“Oh, good,” Dorian said. “That’s what they said about me in Tevinter, you know.”

“That’s what they say about you at Skyhold,” the Iron Bull said. “But I don’t think they mean it as a compliment.”

“It wasn’t a compliment back home, either,” Dorian said. “There’s no accounting for taste.”

“I suspect that’s also what they said about you in Tevinter,” Solas said lightly.

Before Dorian could complain that he was being ganged up on, Cassandra rescued him.

“Gentlemen,” she said. “We have a war to prepare for.”

But Dorian could see her faintly smiling.

“The archers will be armed with pitch grenades and fire arrows,” Scout Harding said, drawing their attention back to the table. “Once you’ve made it around to the primary camp, they’ll focus on splitting enemy forces and causing confusion. Try to keep formation at the edges of the camp, or they won’t be able to use the grenades without risking friendly fire. That’s just about the last thing we need.”

“If the Red Templars try to retreat,” Trevelyan said, “let them run. Our goal is only to take the camp. Today’s fight is about gaining a foothold, not a headcount advantage.”

“Once the second camp is taken, I’ll send a small troop up from the base camp to establish a perimeter,” Cullen said. “The main force will follow, but it’ll be slow, so don’t count on backup that’s not coming. If things get hairy, fall back. If you hear the archers’ horn, fall back. We can always regroup at base camp for a second push - they’ll be disorganized and hurting and we’ll have fresh soldiers to take your place.”

“No heroics,” Trevelyan said. “And stay the fuck away from the red lyrium. Understood?”

There was an echoed response of, “Understood,” from everyone.

“Good,” Trevelyan said. “Any questions?”

There was a beat during which no one spoke.

Then, Blackwall said, “I have a question.”

Trevelyan’s gaze flicked to him sharply.

“Why isn’t Vivienne with us?” Blackwall asked. “We could use her skill as a knight enchanter in a fight like this.”

Trevelyan’s nostrils flared momentarily, so quickly Dorian almost missed it. The others were all looking at Blackwall, except for the Iron Bull, who had also seen the motion. He and Dorian exchanged glances.

“Madame de Fer and I have both agreed that her top priority at the moment is to stay at Skyhold and keep as close an eye on Morrigan as possible,” Trevelyan said, his tone even.

That was not, of course, how he’d described the decision to Dorian.

“The bitches can keep each other occupied,” had been his phrasing when they were in private.

And Dorian had raised his eyebrows into his glass of wine and kept his mouth carefully shut.

There was no love lost between Vivienne and Trevelyan. They’d hated each other from almost the moment they’d laid eyes on one another if Varric was to be believed, and nothing had been able to ease their mutual disdain. In fact, it only ever seemed to grow. They maintained a courteous working relationship only because they both understood how to wield civility like a weapon and were mature enough to recognize one another’s abilities in their respective fields. So long as those fields stayed as far apart as possible.

(As for Morrigan, well. Nobody trusted Morrigan, but it also didn’t help that she condescended to Trevelyan. If there was anything in all of Thedas that was likely to actually make Trevelyan overtly angry, it was either the suggestion that he return to a circle or the implication that he was stupid. Which one he found more infuriating seemed to change based on whether Vivienne or Morrigan was closer at hand.)

Blackwall didn’t seem satisfied with this explanation, however. Perhaps he doubted that Trevelyan was acting from a tactical position rather than a personal one. Maybe he was right. Either way, he let it go. What he said next was, “And what about Varric? He’s been invested in the eradication of red lyrium from the beginning. Shouldn’t he be here?”

Trevelyan stared at Blackwall silently, face impassive.

“Varric understands the Inquisitor’s decision,” Cassandra began when no response was immediately forthcoming.

“I didn’t ask what Varric understood,” Blackwall interrupted sharply.

Cassandra’s lips pressed into a tight line of displeasure. It took a reckless amount of guts to talk back to Seeker Pentaghast, Right Hand of the Divine. Dorian could rarely muster the courage without the assistance of alcohol. Thankfully, he could usually find some.

“Varric is a skirmisher, not a soldier,” Trevelyan finally said, before Cassandra could give Blackwall the dressing down she was clearly headed for. “The same goes for Sera and Cole. I’ve chosen the five of you because you know how to endure a sustained battle and, more importantly, you know how to follow orders. Even ones you don’t like.”

Blackwall’s gaze dropped to the table. He was still frowning, but he seemed disinclined to argue further.

“Anyone else?” Trevelyan prompted. “No? Very well. You have your marching orders. See the quartermaster for your potions, and I’ll meet you at the front.”

He turned and strode out of the tent. Dorian hastened to catch up with him, but found Solas in his path.

“A word?” Solas asked.

Dorian sighed, but nodded his acquiescence.

“Cassandra has informed me of the Inquisitor’s problem with red lyrium,” Solas said as they left the hearing range of the others.

“She told you?” Dorian asked. 

He was regretting saying anything. It would be piss poor testimony of his friendship if there were camp whispers about the Inquisitor not being up to snuff.

“Not as such,” Solas said with a small smile. “She merely asked me how I was coping with the red lyrium’s presence. From there it wasn’t hard to guess the real nature of her concern. The red lyrium doesn’t affect her, so she must be asking on behalf of someone else. You and Trevelyan are the most likely candidates, and if it were you I’m sure we all would have heard about it extensively by now. The Inquisitor never would have asked her directly, so it must’ve been you.”

“Yes, yes, you’ve worked it out just right and you’re very clever for it,” Dorian grumbled.

“Thank you,” Solas said.

“I take it you have something to share?” Dorian said.

“Hm,” Solas said. “Perhaps. As you are no doubt aware, the Inquisitor and I have been working together to study the mark’s magic and its...potential.”

Dorian had been aware, because he’d spent many long afternoons perched by the railing in the library, pretending not to stare down at Trevelyan as he and Solas stood conferring in the rotunda below. The elevation provided a truly exquisite angle of the Inquisitor’s ass, especially when he leaned over Solas’s desk.

“He mentioned that it might be the anchor amplifying the red lyrium’s effects,” Dorian said.

“Yes, that may be the case,” Solas said. “Not only because of its nature, but because the Veil is exceptionally thin here.”

Oh, here we go, Dorian thought.

“There has been a great deal of suffering in this place,” Solas continued. “It’s hard to say which came first - the death or the red lyrium. Either way, they’re intermingled now.”

“What kinds of things do you see here?” Dorian asked, despite himself. “In the Fade.”

Solas frowned.

“I have not walked the Fade since Ser Michel warned us of Imshael's presence,” he said. “It would be dangerous to wander blindly through his domain. You should be wary, as well, Dorian. Guard your dreams carefully. Whatever he has planned for us, it is unlikely to be pleasant.”

“What makes you so sure he has something planned?” Dorian asked.

“Imshael is no ordinary demon,” Solas said. “He is a Forbidden One. It is better not to underestimate him.”

This was news to Dorian. Michel de Chevin had described Imshael as ‘a powerful demon,’ and the fact that the demon bore a name alone had been cause for concern. But the Forbidden Ones were more than demons. They had existed long before the darkspawn. Some even said it was they who had first taught blood magic to the magisters.

Dorian ran a finger along his mustache in a nervous tic.

“So what are you suggesting?” he asked. “Can something be done for the Inquisitor?”

“I am suggesting,” Solas said, “that he is in a great deal of danger. The red lyrium weakens him. The Veil presses close. And a spirit of considerable power walks the waking world in the service of his greatest enemy. This campaign would be utterly foolish if it weren’t also completely necessary.”

Dorian let out a shaky breath.

“My, you’re brimming with optimism this morning,” he said. “Is there nothing that we can do, then, except wait and watch?”

Solas tapped his fingers on his staff for a moment, examining Dorian with a calculating gaze. Then he looked away, up toward the Keep and the enormous carved wolf statue that loomed even above that.

“I think that the three of us,” Solas said, “you, the Inquisitor, and I, have discounted the use of having allies in the past. It may be as you say - we can do nothing but wait and watch. It’s not a plan I particularly care for. But it may also be that there is more value in having someone to watch you and having someone to watch in return than any of us have previously considered. I certainly like our odds of climbing this mountain together better than I do of trying it alone.”

“Careful, Solas, or I’ll start to think you like me,” Dorian said.

“Perhaps,” Solas said vaguely, his lips twitching.

“The feeling is mutually inconclusive,” Dorian said. “Well, I can’t say you’ve set my mind at ease, but your warning is duly noted. You watch my back, I’ll watch yours, and we’ll both watch Trevelyan. Last one to the top of the mountain is a rotten egg.”

“We have a deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic starts at like chapter thirty of a fic tagged as slow burn. and chapter one of a fic tagged as psychological torture! :) fancy that


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i earn the "graphic depictions of violence" tag in this chapter

The sun was still low in the sky when they began the attack, the shadows of trees thrown across the ice in narrow gray spikes. They marched through Sahrnia and up the path that wound through the snow covered rocks, their breath gathering in front of their faces and then intermingling into a thin haze. It was almost peaceful.

Then the fighting began, and the tranquil morning snapped beneath shouts and the cry of steel on steel. Blood sprayed across the ground as many feet turned white to muddy brown. The six of them - Dorian, Trevelyan, Solas, Blackwall, Cassandra, and the Iron Bull - hung back, letting the soldiers do the heavy lifting. Dorian filled the air with static to stun the Red Templars’ backline. Solas wove confusion spells that made the Red Templars spin in place. The three warriors planted themselves at the edges of the fray, cutting down weakened enemies who broke for the tree line. Trevelyan stood back, observing.

The Inquisitor’s weakness - aside from rage demons, which felt somehow appropriate - was in the small things. For all that the others complained about Dorian’s flashy style, Trevelyan seemed utterly incapable of casting little magic. Whether it was due to his ego or just something he’d genuinely never learned, Dorian had yet to discover, but if it was a lapse in his education, it wasn’t something he’d gone to much effort to correct.

They took the base camp in an hour. By then, the sun had fully risen.

“How is everyone?” Trevelyan asked as they gathered at the base of the mountain path. “Any injuries?”

They answered in the negative.

“Perfect,” he said. “Scout Harding, are you ready?”

“Give us a few moments, Your Worship, and we will be,” Harding said.

Her scouts were occupied with helping the soldiers mark out a perimeter for their new camp and setting up watch points. Dorian watched a soldier cut the throat of a fallen Red Templar, and a question occurred to him.

“What are we doing with the bodies?” he asked. “Are they safe to burn?”

“It’s safer to burn them than not to,” Trevelyan said, which wasn’t a yes. “We’ve planned for pits to be dug at a distance from camp, downwind.”

Well, there was nothing like a nice mass grave to really set the mood of a campaign.

Scout Harding signaled that her team was ready, and like a well oiled machine the five members of the Inquisition’s Inner Circle fell into formation around the Inquisitor.

“Aw, yeah, I’ve been looking forward to this,” the Iron Bull said, rolling his shoulders eagerly.

“Barbarian,” Dorian scoffed.

“Talk it up, ‘Vint, I see you back there getting sparky,” Bull said. “Itching to spill some blood.”

“Yes, but I do it with so much more class,” Dorian said. There was no denying it - little shocks of magic  _ had _ been dancing across his fingers in anticipation.

“You are both insufferable,” Cassandra said as they started up the mountain path. “Remember that we are here to do a job.”

“That’s me,” Bull said. “Employee of the month.”

They rounded a corner into a waiting cluster of four Red Templars. The enemy troops - a late band of reinforcements, probably - drew their weapons, but their formation broke the moment the Iron Bull charged for them, roaring and swinging his enormous axe. Solas’s barrier flashed blue across his skin.

“First one’s mine!” Bull shouted over the crunch of metal and bone.

“And now he’s mine,” Dorian declared, raising the seconds old corpse like a puppet on strings. “Thank you very much, Bull.”

“Any time, big guy!”

The remaining Red Templars braced themselves, raising their shields, but Blackwall used his long chain to swipe at their legs, knocking their footing out from under them and sending one stumbling back onto the ground. Bull brought his axe down onto the prone templar’s chest, and a spray of blood shot upward in a gory little fountain. Cassandra’s sword found a gap in the armor of another templar and cleaved his arm nearly from his body. He crumpled, crying out with pain, and as he teetered forward, her blade met his neck with a wet ripping sound. It was Dorian’s puppet that took the last one, its mangled body falling on the terrified soldier with the sloppy relentlessness that was typical of the undead.

The fight was over in a matter of minutes. Dorian let go of the corpse with a flick of his wrist.

“You’re going to fall behind, Inquisitor,” he teased. “That’s two for Bull and one for Cassandra and me each, with half points to Blackwall and Solas for participation.”

“I’m not worried,” Trevelyan said. “There will be plenty more to go around.”

“That and he’s trying to avoid melting the ice and bringing the caves down on top of us,” Solas said.

“That too,” Trevelyan agreed.

As they made their way up the path, the red lyrium, which had only grown in small clusters down below, began to appear in earnest. Great crimson stalagmites intermittently burst from the ground, humming with light and something worse. It whispered quietly as they passed, a fragmented song with wordless lyrics that Dorian couldn’t discern.

“I hate this stuff,” the Iron Bull said as they came to one particularly large vein. “Fucking demon rocks.”

“An interesting theory,” Solas said. “Although not likely to be correct.”

“That you even have to consider it is bad enough,” Bull said. He spat to the side, like a superstitious fishwife.

“Do you suppose it’s possible, though?” Dorian asked. “For demons to possess lesser life forms? A worm or a flower? How small do you think it could go?”

“Have you never heard of the sylvan?” Solas asked back. “They are trees possessed by spirits. There used to be many more of them, especially in Ferelden.”

“How absolutely fascinating,” Dorian said. “I wonder if any more have appeared since the Breach.”

“Don’t we have enough problems without having to worry about fighting a whole bloody forest?” Blackwall asked gruffly.

“Oh, I don’t know, I think I’d pick the army of kindling over the templars any day,” Trevelyan said. “The burning point of flesh is so much higher than wood, even with all that armor to cook it in. Not to mention the smell.”

Blackwall grunted and fell silent once again. Dorian gave Trevelyan a gentle glare, but he only blinked innocently back. Dorian wasn’t fooled.

A troop of six Red Templars came down the path toward them, much more prepared than the first four had been. They had two with heavy tower shields at the front and a pair of archers at the back.

“For Corypheus!” one of them shouted. “For the Elder One!”

A wall of fire shot up beneath their feet, cutting in a diagonal line forcing them to break apart to avoid the flames. Trevelyan killed the fire as soon as they had moved. Water dripped from the stone ceiling in thick, slushy droplets and the floor beneath the templars’ feet grew slick.

The Iron Bull rushed the broken front line like a battering ram.

The familiar cold rush of Solas’s barrier washed over Dorian and he saw that same blue glow light up the rest of the party. The archers’ first volley would have struck both himself and Trevelyan in the chests, but the deadly projectiles fell uselessly away instead, neither of them flinching. Dorian supposed they’d become a bit spoiled over the months. Woe be to him who thought they’d come to rely on Solas’s protection like a crutch, however.

Dorian called lightning down onto the two archers and Solas pulled a stone fist from the cave wall, crushing one of them between it and the rock face opposite. The other archer leapt back, trembling from electrical shocks but still dexterous enough to avoid the strike, though he slipped on the slick cavern floor and fumbled to keep himself upright. Dorian cast a terror spell on him. The archer dropped his bow and began to scream, clawing at his face and neck as if trying to get something off of himself. Dorian hoped it was snakes. He always hoped it was snakes.

Trevelyan threw a quick succession of small fireballs at the two swordsmen with shields, no doubt trying to do exactly what he’d described to Blackwall - heat up their armor and weapons until they were too hot to stand, until they were forced to drop their swords and shields or perhaps even to the point of literal roasting. Dorian had seen him heat the air around a man until it wavered like a mirage, the man’s skin blistering and cracking as they looked on, but Trevelyan wouldn’t risk a spell like that with the three warriors so close.

The Iron Bull had swept past the shield carriers into the middle of the four swordsmen and spun his axe in a wide arc. In the narrow passage, there was little room for the Red Templars to maneuver. Two of the three in the path of his blade managed to scramble away, but the third was caught between Bull and an outcropping of rock. He tried to duck, but didn’t make it all the way. The result was a spray of gore that Dorian was pleased not to have been in the path of.

The two shield-carriers seemed caught between rounding on the Iron Bull’s exposed back and refraining from showing their own to Cassandra and Blackwall. One compromised by only turning halfway, which turned out to not be much of a compromise as Blackwall’s sword came down on his arm. He staggered under both the blow and the heat of Trevelyan’s spells - steam was rising faintly rising from his shoulders - but valiantly raised his sword to strike back. Blackwall met it with his shield, and then used his blade to swipe at the templar’s exposed flank. This, at last, brought him crashing to his knees with a shout.

Cassandra had engaged the other shield-carrying templar, who had done the smart thing and kept his attention on her. His shield was like a massive wall, but Cassandra crashed into it with the full weight of her body. The reverberation from the impact between their two shields shook the ceiling above them, sending dust and little rocks falling down on their heads. The templar stepped back with the blow, giving ground to maintain his footing, and responded with his sword. Cassandra shifted in time to raise her shield against it, but grunted under the weight of his strike.

This seemed to be the most capable templar of the bunch, so it was here that Trevelyan focused his attention. The ice beneath the templar’s feet suddenly melted into a small pool of water. He stumbled as he sank an inch down, and then screamed as the water quickly reached a rapid boil.

Dorian’s terror spell had worn off, and the archer was shakily raising his bow, so he called lightning once more, a devastating bolt that struck the man with the force of a charging Bronco, frying him inside out. He dropped. The archer Solas had crushed pulled himself by the cave wall back onto his feet. His efforts were rewarded with a second rock fist, this time going in the opposite direction. Judging by the smear of blood that followed him as he sank back down to the ground, he wouldn’t be making a second recovery.

Oof, Dorian thought with an inordinate amount of glee. Not a good day for that one.

The others weren’t in much better shape. The Iron Bull had removed his axe from the skull of his first victim - it would have been generous to call the templar an opponent, which would have implied he had had even a fraction of a chance - and redirected it toward the second shield-less swordsman. His sword would have shattered beneath the brunt of Bull’s attack, so he leapt to the side again and tried to strike at Bull’s blind side. His blade found Bull’s heavy leather pauldron, sank only a small amount into it, and then Bull’s elbow found his gut. He curled into himself, the breath knocked from his chest. Then other things were knocked from his chest. Mainly blood and vital organs.

Blackwall’s templar had tried to climb back to his feet - so determined! - but Blackwall had struck his helmeted head with the pommel of his sword, no doubt causing a case of tinnitus that would last for the rest of the templar’s short, miserable life. Sinking to his knees once again, leaning heavily on his shield for support and still smoking from the heat of Trevelyan’s fire, he could do little to defend himself from the mortal strike Blackwall dealt to the back of his neck. He wasn’t decapitated, but it was close. Instead, he choked brokenly on the pain, and then went completely limp.

Cassandra used the moment of shock Trevelyan’s foot soup spell had caused to knock her templar’s shield free from his hands. It went skittering across the cave floor and banged against a vein of red lyrium which sparked madly and hissed nasty things in Cassandra’s direction. Dorian saw Trevelyan wince slightly out of the corner of his eye.

Then Cassandra’s sword was flashing brightly, reflecting the bare morning sunlight as it seeped through the gaps in the cavern wall, and the tip drove into the templar just below the waist, right where his armor ended. At this, Dorian really did give a sympathetic groan.

“And that, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “is why, despite its hideousness, the crotch guard will never go out of fashion.”

The templar gave a pained gurgle of agreement and collapsed.

“Injuries?” Trevelyan called out sharply as the fighting ended.

“None,” came the chorus in response.

“What about mana?” Trevelyan asked, eyes moving to Dorian and Solas.

“I still have plenty,” Solas said.

“Overflowing,” Dorian said. “This hardly counts as a warm up.” More seriously, he asked, “And you?”

“I’m fine,” Trevelyan said.

He’d said it reflexively, and a wince of regret at the corner of one of his eyes confirmed that he hadn’t completely meant it. He never lied to Dorian. That was their little thing.

Their little...

He never lied to Dorian, not outright.

“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” he revised.

Dorian frowned, but let it go.

They encountered a few more small groups of Red Templars on the way up, but none put up much resistance, and they quickly ascended the mountain path. It was steep, winding terrain that would have taken about half an hour to climb at a normal pace without opposition, a little longer for the troops carrying all their gear. They managed it in just under an hour, stopping once or twice so that Solas, Dorian, and Trevelyan could let their mana recharge. The archers were not far behind them, keeping distance to avoid confusing the fight or blocking a retreat.

“Do you think the Red Templars have banter, or is it mostly worshiping the Elder One and hoping Samson doesn’t do another impromptu gear inspection?” Dorian asked as they finished cutting down another small group of templars. “He seems like he’d be uptight about things like polishing your buckles.”

“What are you doing?” Cassandra asked. “Are you - trying to humanize the Red Templars?”

“I was only speculating,” Dorian said.

“I think it’s quite healthy to treat our enemies with respect as fellow living beings,” Solas offered.

“That reminds me of a ‘Vint joke I heard the other day,” Bull said, yanking his axe free from a pulverized rib cage. “Three dead Magisters and an elf are hanging out in the afterlife, discussing their lives.”

“This promises to be exceptionally offensive,” Solas said as they stepped over the bodies and continued up the path. “Do continue.”

“The first Magister starts by saying, ‘I was a wretched man when I was alive, for I am the one who drew up the plans for the staircase to the Golden City.’ Then it’s the second Magister’s turn. He says, ‘Truly you were wretched to plan those stairs, but not as wretched as I, for I am the one who built the staircase to the Golden City.’ Next, it’s the third Magister’s turn, and he says, ‘Truly you both were wretched, to plan those stairs and build them, but neither of you was as wretched as I, for I am the one who climbed the staircase to the Golden City.’ Finally, they get to the elf. He says - ”

Bull cut off abruptly as they took the final turn up to the second camp. An enormous red lyrium behemoth stood waiting at the cusp of a hill, the one that had been marked on Trevelyan’s map in such heavy red ink. It let out an earth-shattering roar as it saw them, and the mass of Red Templars at the base of the hill shifted, a shining wall of armor and shields. 

There were a great deal more than the small guard they’d been expecting.

“Tits,” Bull said.

“Not your best punchline,” Dorian noted.

Then the behemoth was flinging itself toward them, its massive body one jagged weapon of spiking red death, and there was no more time for chatter.

They scattered to the sides as the behemoth crashed down onto the snowy earth, its ugly, clawed arm banging clumsily against the cave’s mouth. It was a wild, uncontrollable thing, barely aware of its own body. Dorian supposed they were lucky Corypheus hadn’t yet worked out how to make them smart. They were less lucky that their escape route, and the archers that were to serve as their support, had just been blocked by its mass.

“You have a plan, Boss?” the Iron Bull shouted.

Solas’s barrier had risen just in time to keep three arrows from hitting him, one aimed capably at his remaining eye.

“Bull and Blackwall, you pull the big one!” Trevelyan shouted, quick as always. “Get him away from the cave entrance! Cassandra, Solas, Dorian - on me!”

He twirled his staff, and pillars of fire shot up from the earth.

The wind picked up, hot and dry, as the three cyclones spun in place, flames writhing out of the spirals to lick at the nearest templars. Each one was wide enough for two men, and, in fact, six templars had vanished into the fiery coils. They weren’t dead; Dorian could hear them screaming.

The templars charged. There were at least fifteen, maybe more, he didn’t have time to count. Behind him he could hear the behemoth and Bull roaring at each other, Blackwall shouting underneath them both. The behemoth began to move with footsteps so heavy they shook the ground under Dorian’s feet. He didn’t have time to look, could only trust.

“Glyph barrier, now," Trevelyan ordered. "Cassandra, hold."

Solas swept his staff in an arc at the same time as Dorian, their motions almost in sync. With practiced precision, they laid down a series of overlapping glyphs, Dorian weaving fire and Solas layering a creeping green nature magic that burst with blooms of light. Anyone who wanted to reach them would sacrifice much to do so.

Trevelyan’s cyclones had died away, choked off by an urgent rush of dispels and smites, but that had been their job. The templars had stamped out the flare and ignored the lighting of the fuse. Now Trevelyan swept his hand before his face, drawing up a wall of white-burning fire that pulsed and rolled toward the oncoming templars. They brought up their shields and pushed onward, but they stepped through it and straight into a second wave - Dorian’s shimmering purple mass terror. The first line of templars faltered, broke, and the second crashed into their backs.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dorian could now see Bull and Blackwall drawing the behemoth away, each one taking turns dodging its blows while the other took swipes at its back and sides. Its claw leveled a tree, and spindly spikes of red lyrium burst from the shattered remains like fungus sprouting out of the earth. They had fought a few behemoths before, mostly in the Emerald Graves, but the way it sowed infestation in its wake still made the hairs on the back of Dorian’s neck stand on end. It scarred the earth with every trembling step.

The confused front line of templars resumed its forward dash, pushed onward by those directly behind, but their footsteps faltered again as they found the terrain beneath their feet suddenly slipping, the dirt beneath the snow transformed from hard rock to fine sand at Solas’s command. The resulting tumble was very nearly comedic. 

Arrows fell unnoticed at Dorian’s feet. A fresh wash of barriers flooded across them. Cassandra readied her sword as the first templars tripped over themselves, directly into the glyphs. 

There was a moment, just before the glyphs activated, when the thick buzz of red lyrium suddenly ticked up. Dorian’s brows furrowed in discomfort, Trevelyan visibly hesitated, and the wall of fire died abruptly, just as it reached the edge of the lyrium hill and started to lick at its red slope. But Dorian barely had time to comprehend this sequence of events before the glyphs flashed to life.

A man could survive one glyph, maybe even two if he was made of sterner stuff, but two and the onslaught of fire and fear that had already passed over the templars’ frontline? A magnificent burst of roaring fire and sharp, furious green light swallowed the first unfortunate five templars, obscuring their last moments. Then their corpses dropped, Dorian’s staff arced, and he poured his will into their still falling limbs.

Cassandra plowed forward, joining the undead surge, one blade turning to six against the oncoming templars. Normally the undead would now be wreathed with flames, their crumbling bodies turned to weapons by Trevelyan’s fire, but the Inquisitor had paused, staff raised, face wrinkled with pain.

“Inquisitor!” Dorian snapped.

Trevelyan’s lips moved, saying something that Dorian couldn’t make out under the sound of swords meeting shields and the roaring, stomping behemoth.

“...louder,” Trevelyan said again, this time his words almost audible. “Why is it getting louder?”

“Inquisitor!” That time it was Solas’s voice that rose over the din of the melee.

Trevelyan seemed to shake himself free from whatever spell had grasped him, because the arc of his staff completed. Dorian’s undead puppets burned. Another round of dispels fell, and the flames died as soon as they had risen. Trevelyan downed a lyrium potion and rose them again. His arms were shaking.

“Kaffas,” Dorian cursed, his concentration torn between his puppets and Trevelyan.

In the backline, the Red Templars’ archers were suddenly pulled together, bodies colliding in a sucking vortex spun by Solas. The invisible whirlpool came just in time. Dorian dipped his head away from an arrow that came sweeping past his face, its trajectory skewed at the last moment. Another arrow whipped past Trevelyan, catching the collar of his robes, but he ignored it.

The undead soldiers and Cassandra had cut down another three templars. Dorian counted six more swordsmen, plus the three archers, still trapped in Solas’s spell. Dorian strained to pull up the new corpses and felt the accuracy seeping from his control. Directing so many bodies, so many limbs was impossible to do with any delicacy. The unskilled corpses became a wall of flesh more than a fighting force. But the first ones were falling, hacked down by the living templars, and he shifted the strings, straining to keep the careful balance, threading his will through a needle’s eye and pulling taut. Sweat beaded at his temple.

Behind them, Harding’s archers had arrived. In front of them, another wave of templars appeared from around the side of the hill. Six, ten, eleven more - Dorian breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth. The behemoth was still raging to one side. Its claw slammed down onto Blackwall, who only just managed to raise his shield in time. Shards of red lyrium went flying in all directions and the man was sent flying backward, nearly to the edge of the mountain’s side. Blue light engulfed him - Solas had also noticed his near miss.

The vortex he’d trapped the templars’ archers in fell away as the shield went up. Their own archers scrambled to take the ridge, but they could only move so quickly. The new wave of templars bolstered the line fighting against Cassandra and the undead, forcing them back. Dorian downed a lyrium potion as quickly as he could and cast another mass terror spell. Arrows went flying over their heads, but it was the Inquisition's projectiles this time, and the templars’ archers refocused their attention on the ridge. Dorian breathed a sigh of relief. Harding’s unit was in place.

The swarm of templar swordsmen had briefly been deterred by the terror spell, but they shook it off with dispels. Then, suddenly, Dorian’s connection to the corpse puppets was gone. He staggered back, ears ringing, spots dancing in front of his eyes. Blindly, he groped for his magic, but it had slipped from his grasp under a well-aimed smite. The dead soldiers he’d been controlling collapsed in a useless heap. Cassandra let out a shout.

“Fuck,” he heard Trevelyan say somewhere to his right, as if speaking through a fog.

Dorian tried to regain his footing, wavering unsteadily under the unexpected blow. Trevelyan was already moving, staff whipping madly through the air and then slamming down into the snow. A column of fire erupted out of the ground, engulfing the templar reinforcements, back by the hill where it was out of range of Cassandra. But almost as soon as it had risen, it was cutting off. Trevelyan had bent almost double, as if he’d taken a punch to the gut, and Dorian couldn’t blame him because he could  _ hear it _ \- the red lyrium’s song had risen to a pitch so high it was more like an ear-splitting scream. The hill was screeching in protest to -

“The heat,” Trevelyan said, straightening. “It’s the heat.” He spun to lock eyes with Dorian. “No more fire spells! The heat’s making the red lyrium - ”

Over his head, several grenades went flying. Pitch splattered across the Red Templars, dark, viscous liquid dripping across the field, across the hill of sparking red stone. Trevelyan spun back, toward Harding’s archers, one hand raised.

“No, stop!” he shouted, but it was too late.

Fire arrows soared overhead. The pitch caught. There were flames, and then, in one horrible instant, the world around them was torn asunder.

Dorian felt himself sent flying backward under the force of the blast, but he was only distantly aware of his body. His head felt like it was full of knives. It was like something inside of him had snapped and all that was left was pain and red light.

Through tear-filled eyes he could see a dark red cloud of smoke, illuminated with internal fire, rising from the hill. To his left, he saw Solas using his staff to shakily pull himself back up. To his right, Trevelyan was on his knees, vomiting into the snow.

Dorian winced in anticipation as a crash shook the mountain, but it wasn’t a second explosion - it was the behemoth falling clumsily to the ground. The blast had caught it, too. Blackwall surged upward with a yell and buried his sword in what remained of its fleshy chest. The behemoth let out one final roar, shuddered, and went still.

Regaining his feet from where he had been sent sprawling, the Iron Bull refocused his attention immediately on the remaining templars. Many of them had been knocked down. The Inquisition's archers peppered their prone bodies with arrows, until there were few enough standing that the battle looked decided, even with the three mages still handicapped.

Solas raised a weak barrier anyway, and Dorian followed suit. Trevelyan looked like he was focusing on not losing his grip on the ground and falling upward into the sky.

Then came the second blast.

The pitch fire had caught on a fallen tree. It traveled quickly, finding another exposed red lyrium vein, and another explosion rocked the mountain. It was smaller than the first, but it hardly made a difference. Dorian thought he might have briefly whited out from the pain, but if he did, he came to only moments later, one hand freezing cold where it had buried itself in the snow.

By some miracle, Trevelyan was still conscious. Blood was trickling from his nose.

“Bull!” he was shouting.

Dorian’s head whipped up. He could hear it now - the scream of pain. Bull had been right at the edge of the second explosion’s blast radius. He’d gone flying, into a bare rock face, a large chunk of red lyrium impaled in his arm.

Solas cursed colorfully. It was a bad day when Solas’s composure was breaking.

“Should we sound the retreat?” Dorian choked out.

“No,” Trevelyan said. He spat blood that had dribbled from his nose down into his mouth, and clambered unsteadily to his feet. “No, we’re taking it.”

And he was right. Whatever punishment the Inquisition had received, the Red Templars had suffered worse, close as they’d been to the lyrium hill. Their bodies littered the ground, only a few of them still groaning and stirring, and what remained of their forces was giving way quickly to the combined onslaught of Cassandra, Blackwall, and the Inquisition’s archers. Never one to be kept down, Bull leveraged himself back onto his feet and rejoined the fray, ignoring the glowing red rock still embedded in his bicep.

“Fuck,” Trevelyan said again. He was panting hard. He spat more blood.

“Are you alright?” Dorian asked, stumbling toward him.

“It’s better now,” Trevelyan said, which meant little considering how bad it had just been. “But what about you?” 

He reached out and placed a hand against the side of Dorian’s bare neck, pressed his gloved thumb against the pulse, as if searching for proof. Dorian swallowed against the intimate touch and nodded.

“Fine,” he said. “Solas?”

“That was most unpleasant,” Solas said, joining them. “I would rather not do it again, if that’s alright with you, Inquisitor.”

Trevelyan gave a shaky laugh. His hand dropped from Dorian and he swiped the back of it under his still bleeding nose.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” he said. “It could still go up again.”

The last of the templars were caving. Three were left, then two, then one. An arrow from the Inquisition’s archers cut down the last man, sinking home between the grill in his helmet.

“Where are the healers?” Trevelyan snapped, looking over his shoulder.

As if summoned by his word, the first of the troops from the base camp appeared at the top of the mountain passage, three healers at their back. They looked terrified - all of the Emprise du Lion would’ve heard those explosions - but they hurried forward with grim determination. They’d probably run the rest of the way up the mountain, orders be damned. Inquisition troops were tenacious like that.

“Wait!” Trevelyan said, forcing them to halt. “There may be stragglers. And we need to get that fire out. I’d smother it with magic, but - ”

“Best not to tempt fate,” Solas agreed, raising his staff. “Sand should do the trick.”

“Can you manage?” Dorian asked.

Solas gave him a wry look.

“I should think so,” he said.

The earth near the hill shifted, rising in a brown snake of fine earth that sent dust clouds spilling out across the battlefield. Dorian covered his mouth with his sleeve and turned away. There was a loud hissing noise, and then the crackling of fire had died out. The smoke kept rising. It would rise for a long time yet.

Despite his confidence, Solas looked pale. His arms slumped inelegantly at his sides.

One of Harding’s archers leapt nimbly down from the ridge and was coming toward them.

“Herald, the remaining Red Templars have fled up the mountain,” she said.

“Good,” Trevelyan said. He gestured toward the fresh troops. “Go.”

The troops fanned out, moving in to canvas the abandoned templar camp. The healers rushed to tend to the Inquisition forces. One stopped before Trevelyan.

“You're bleeding, Your Worship,” she said, raising her already softly glowing hands.

“Leave it,” Trevelyan said. “It's just a nosebleed. Where's Harding?”

The healer hesitated, a look of annoyance flashing across her face - the Inquisition’s healers always seemed to be vaguely annoyed, come to think of it - but didn’t seem willing to argue with the Herald of Andraste. She turned instead to meet Cassandra as she approached.

“Tend to the others first,” Cassandra said, just as quickly as Trevelyan had. “I received nothing more than a bruising.”

“Ser - ” the healer began.

“I will come by for examination later,” Cassandra said. “Tend to the others, recruit. One of the archers fell. He’s badly hurt.”

The healer sighed but moved on.

“That was not what we were expecting,” Cassandra said to Trevelyan. “In many ways.”

“No,” Trevelyan agreed, and turned to face Harding, who was hurrying toward them. It was likely she’d been waiting with her fallen man. “Tell me what went wrong. I heard nothing about a behemoth unit.”

“W-we must have missed it,” Harding breathed. “The forces were supposed to be much smaller. Twenty at most, and unprepared, not - ” She gestured to the battlefield, littered with templar corpses. Plus those who had retreated.

“In some ways we're lucky that the red lyrium went up when it did,” Dorian said. “Although it didn't seem like it at the time.”

"Yes, even I felt that," Cassandra said, sounding disturbed. “It was a disgusting sensation, like an enemy at the back of my neck, taunting me, but also.... Is that what it's like for you normally?”

“I don't think there's anything normal about it,” Dorian said.

Cassandra made a displeased noise not unlike the low rumble Bull made when the word ‘demon’ came up in conversation.

“This is a disaster,” Trevelyan said.

“It was my fault,” Harding said quickly. “My team missed the behemoth. A whole behemoth unit…”

Trevelyan didn't reprimand her, but he didn't reassure her either. He let her own shame at failure be her punishment.

“We took both camps with minimal casualties,” Cassandra said pragmatically. “This was a success.”

“Our intelligence failed,” Trevelyan said, causing Harding to flinch, “and the red lyrium is far more volatile than we thought. The whole landscape of this campaign just changed beneath our feet.”

He turned toward the clustered tents of the Red Templars, visible just around the corner of the hill. The Inquisition troops were using their swords to part the heavy red canvas, calling all clears as they checked for lingering enemies and threats.

“Cassandra, Harding, walk with me,” Trevelyan said. “We need to plan.”

Cassandra nodded and followed him, Harding hesitantly trailing after, her face pinched with distress.

Dorian would have gone with them, except that the Iron Bull had been injured. He still heard the echo of it in his head, just above the persistent, angry choir of the red lyrium - Bull’s howl, filled with anger and pain, a jagged piece of red lyrium jutting from his arm. 

Solas had disappeared at some point. That probably wasn't surprising given how shaken he'd looked at the end. Most likely, he’d gone to find someplace quiet to meditate or whatever else it was elven apostates did. Dorian headed toward where the healers had descended on Blackwall and Bull. A couple of Inquisition archers were there as well, both of them in a bad way.

Dorian arrived just in time to see a healer pull the red lyrium free from Bull's arm with a pair of large metal tongs. It jerked out of flesh and muscle with a meaty sound that never bothered Dorian on an enemy. With Bull, it made him wince, even as Bull grit his teeth and bore it without flinching. The healer dropped the red lyrium onto a flat, dry rock nearby, where it sparked and steamed.

“How are you doing?” Dorian asked.

“Eh, I’ve had worse,” Bull said as the healer pressed a glowing palm to the gaping wound. “The getting stabbed part wasn’t so bad. It was the thing inside it that hurt like a bitch. I could feel it pulsing, burning, like fucking poison in my skin. Still kinda feel it.”

“Is it poisoned?” Dorian asked with concern. “Is there any risk of infection?”

He remembered that dark future, those dank cells filled with the empty-eyed shells of those who had become incubators for red lyrium. He remembered Sera - Sera, who he hadn’t even known yet, and sometimes he hated the disservice that future had done her to him. Her body had trembled as she railed at them, half-delirious with terror and pain; as she railed at Trevelyan, who bore it with grace and only later let the fury show in the silent tremor of his hands. If the Iron Bull was… But Bull was shaking his head with a slight smile.

“Nah,” he said. “They checked me over. There’s no sign of it. I’ve been told it takes a lot more exposure for the stuff to really get into you, days or even weeks, maybe. That’s good news, anyway. Can you imagine? We already have one kind of blight to deal with.”

Dorian sighed in relief.

“I see our fearless leader has seen fit to check in on our troops,” Blackwall said sarcastically, jerking his chin toward Trevelyan, who was standing by a wagon filled with Red Templar supplies, deep in conversation.

Blackwall had a nasty cut on his forehead that had been sliced open in one of the blasts, and a healer was prodding at his left shoulder. Dislocated, probably, if the behemoth's blow had been anything to judge by. They’d both been luckier than the two Inquisition archers - one had taken an arrow that had punctured her lung and another had tumbled from the ridge and broken his pelvis. There had been no deaths, but, like Trevelyan, Blackwall didn't seem to be taking it well.

“What’s the Boss gonna do?” Bull asked. “Heal us?” He snorted. “I don’t think he could heal so much as a paper cut. So he’s supposed to come over here and hover? Pat us on the head and tell us how much he cares?” Bull shook his head. “He’s right where he needs to be: Planning, to make sure this doesn’t happen again. That’s how he shows he gives a damn. And he does give a damn, no matter how it looks from here. We took the day, but he’s mad, so what’s that tell you, Blackwall? You’re a military man, aren’t you?”

Blackwall was silent for the rest of his treatment, unconvinced. When he got up and left, Dorian and Bull watched him go, out toward the edge of camp and far from the Inquisitor.

“That’s a keg of gaatlok that’s gonna empty one of two ways,” Bull said. He glanced at Dorian. “You get it, though, right?”

“I do,” Dorian said.

And he did. But Bull hadn’t heard some of the things Trevelyan had said, hadn’t seen some of the things he’d done. Dorian had.

The healer finally let Bull go with half-hearted orders to take it easy. Bull didn’t even have the decency to pretend not to laugh. Poor woman.

Together, he and Dorian wandered out toward the side of the mountain to examine the remains of the behemoth. At the edge of the cliff, near the crumbling ruins of a broken bridge, Dorian stared into the valley. If he craned his neck, he could just see the edge of the base camp, sheltered in the curve of the mountain.

He remembered about Trevelyan, and about Cullen.

“I heard you encouraged Cullen to drop lyrium,” Dorian had said one afternoon, a swell of affection blooming in his chest. “That was well done.”

“How did you hear about that?” Trevelyan had asked. “It’s not something he advertises.”

“We play chess together,” Dorian said. “And talk, I suppose.” 

They might even have been friends, which was a strange thing to consider. Dorian had so very few of those.

Trevelyan regarded Dorian curiously for a moment, then shrugged, dismissing the matter.

“Well, one less templar, right?” he said.

_ One less templar. _

That was the thing Bull and the others didn’t understand about the Inquisitor, the thing that Blackwall had begun to realize. It was why Dorian was so exhausted all the time, nearly split down the middle and struggling to hold the two pieces together.

Dane Trevelyan might sometimes do good things, but he did them for the most awful reasons.

Dorian turned to look back at the wrecked landscape of their recent battlefield.

“You never finished your joke,” he said distantly.

The dark vermilion plume of smoke was still billowing up from the hill. Further down the mountain, near the base camp, he’d spied another cloud rising where the Inquisition soldiers had begun to burn the dead. Dorian dreaded to think of it coming back down with the rain. Poison in the earth and in the air and in the water. The people had to live here for days and weeks and months and years. There was poison in the land’s blood and bones.

“What?” Bull asked. He had stooped to rip the ragged tunic from the dead behemoth’s body and was using it to wipe the gore from his axe.

“Your joke about the Magisters and the elf,” Dorian prompted. “You never finished it.”

“Oh, right,” Bull said. He cleared his throat. “So the elf finally says, ‘All of you were wretched, to plan and build and climb those stairs, but even so, none of you was as wretched as I, for I was the top step.’”

Dorian blinked at Bull for a moment. Then he let out an inelegant guffaw of laughter.

Wherever Solas had wandered off to, it was thankfully not near enough to have heard.

“Dorian,” a voice called.

He turned to see Cassandra standing with her back straight, face drawn tight and pale, and felt the small, amused smile slip from his face.

“It’s the Inquisitor,” she said. “He needs you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> additional tags: Cry "Havoc!," and let slip the dogs of war, "I didn't ask how much red lyrium was in the room, I said, 'I cast fireball.'"
> 
> i like violence :^)


End file.
